The Risen by Tarn Richardson

Author:Tarn Richardson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: RedDoor
Published: 2019-07-23T00:00:00+00:00

FIFTY-THREE

KIEV. UKRAINE.

The train driver had been persuaded to turn back to Kiev to allow Tacit and the others off. Now Tacit stood alone on the street corner in the heart of the city and listened to the whistle of the locomotive as it rattled away into the grey gloom of rural Ukraine. The others had gone inside. He watched a group of soldiers swagger up the road towards him. They looked like vagrants, their eyes flitting left and right, across the street and down side-alleys, as if they were looking for someone, anything upon which to vent their fury, drunk on their violence and might. On their arms were red bands.

They walked past Tacit, observing him closely, before stepping into the empty street and halfway across breaking into a run when they heard the sound of muffled gunfire and shouting a couple of streets away, drawn on by the anticipation of more violence.

It started to snow, a wet drenching snow.

“They still haven’t found Poré,” called Furtado, appearing from a door near where Tacit was standing.

“They won’t now,” said Tacit, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets. “It’s days since Patmos. He could be anywhere.”

Furtado looked sick. “We have found six vials,” he said, trying to find hope where he knew there was none.

“We need all seven.”

Tacit turned, following something across the grey heavens, finding himself drawn to the south-west, away towards Rome and the Vatican. There was a voice once more inside him, but it seemed changed, no longer merely condemning or maligning. Instead it soothed and begged, appealing for Tacit to come, to return to the seat of power, to stand beside the man whom he always knew he one day would call his master, no matter how far he tried to run from the calling, no matter how hard he fought against it. And while before it had spoken in a rush of words and noise, now things had changed. Now it spoke clearly to him, every word precise and vivid.

“Do you think we’ll ever see it again? That we’ll ever go back to the Vatican?” said Furtado.

“Oh, I have no doubt that I will,” Tacit replied, looking at the fearful, uncertain sky. “It is now only a matter of time.”

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